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‘Then a promenade you shall have,’ Luca promised.
* * *
‘You don’t know this city at all,’ she accused Luca with a grin when he took them the wrong way for the third time.
‘Maybe I just want to get you alone in a dark alleyway,’ he suggested.
‘Good try. Come on, I told you it was this way.’
‘I never come here as a tourist,’ he explained. ‘I stay at the conte’s villa, which is outside the city. We are driven to parties and restaurants. Obviously I have been inside every museum, every church, every park, but I’ve never had the freedom to walk around like this.’
‘Not even with Francesca?’ Minty asked, wishing she’d not spoken the moment she’d done so. She sounded dangerously like a jealous girlfriend, which she wasn’t—jealous, or indeed a girlfriend.
He laughed. ‘Francesca? Wander round the streets without a purpose or someone to impress? No, she would have made me stay at that gala until the last moment, and then escort the conte home so she could be seen leaving with him.’
‘I like him,’ Minty said, wanting to change the subject. ‘Your grandfather, I mean. And I think...’ She cast about for the right words but ended up saying baldy, ‘I think he is really proud of you.’
‘You got all that from a five-minute conversation?’ Luca sounded sceptical.
‘I got that from five minutes of him singing your praises. Did you know that your gelato is the most authentic mass-produced product he has ever tasted?’
‘It’s traditionally made, not mass-produced—’ Luca stopped mid-speech. ‘The conte said that?’
Minty nodded. ‘And much, much more, but I’d hate for you to get big-headed. Aha! I told you this was the way.’
They were at the entrance to a large square, a fountain in the middle. Along one side was a two-storey building with a series of steps leading to the pillared terrace. At the back of the shallow terrace was a wall with heavy-looking doors interspersed at intervals. The pillars were impressively carved with round medallion-style decorations, a picture of a baby on each one.
‘The hospital of the innocents,’ Minty said softly. ‘I used to come here most days, trying to imagine what it was like to know you had been literally posted into an orphanage. I wonder if it was better to grow up never knowing who your parents were or to know why you were here. Or—and spot the melodrama of a teenager here—was it worse to have parents who took no notice of you at all? These children had no expectations, no obligations; they were free...’
‘Free to be foundlings, paupers and servants,’ Luca said wryly. He put an arm around her. ‘Is this what you did when you lived in Florence, mooched dreamily around here?’
Minty nestled into his embrace. ‘I promenaded and flirted with dangerously attractive Italian boys.’ She looked up at him provocatively. ‘A habit I don’t seem to have lost.’ Luca’s arm tightened round her shoulders. ‘I went to every museum at least once and what felt like every church. I saw more depictions of the Madonna and Child than anybody could cope with and realised an art history degree wasn’t for me, despite its royal connections!’
‘What did you do instead?’
‘Well, I did get engaged twice before I was twenty-one,’ she pointed out. ‘That took up some time.’
‘And the boat to Australia,’ he said.
‘That came afterwards. I was running away from the fallout with Spike.’ She sighed. ‘I do seem to run away a lot.’ She straightened up, moving out of his embrace. ‘I shouldn’t have brought you here; it always makes me sombre. Come on, I want gelato. Does anywhere round here stock yours?’ She smiled at him. ‘Ours, I should say.’
She grabbed his hand and pulled him along, away from the square and the gloomy thoughts it always evoked. ‘All the really good gelato shops in Florence make their own,’ Luca said. ‘And they are all worth trying.’ He flashed her a dangerously sexy grin. ‘I’m not so vain that I can’t appreciate somebody else’s artisanship.’
Another couple of moments and they were outside one of the city’s most popular gelaterias. The glass windows showcased the long counters filled with over one hundred vibrantly coloured ice creams.
‘Cone or a cup?’
Minty gave Luca a withering glance. ‘Oh, I know you purists are all about the cup, but I, my friend, am English and we eat our ice cream out of a cone. But,’ she added cautiously, ‘I am a sophisticated type and I only like sugar cones.’
‘And which flavours would the beautiful signorina like in her sugar cone?’
‘All of them,’ she said, her nose pressed up against the glass like a starving Victorian waif. ‘How can I choose?’
‘Let’s go in and decide,’ Luca suggested. ‘Or we could just stand here and look...’
It only took ten minutes for Minty to choose, which, as she explained to Luca, was pretty good, considering she had been in Italy for no more than a couple of weeks and had yet to enter a gelateria.
‘You have been to my factory shop, like clockwork, every afternoon break,’ Luca said indignantly.
‘It’s not the same,’ Minty tried to explain.
‘And yet with all this choice you go for a frutti di bosco and a lemon,’ he said. Luca had spent some time trying to persuade Minty to be more exotic in her choice.
‘It’s a classic,’ she said. ‘I’m sure mint liquorice and coffee makes a great combination but I wanted something more subtle. And yes,’ she added as she saw the glint in his eye, ‘I can be subtle. Just look at me tonight.’
‘You are beautiful tonight,’ he said. ‘I didn’t forget to tell you that, did I?’
‘You have only mentioned it ten or so times but I’ll forgive you.’ Normally Minty liked to live up to her public image and dress accordingly. She eschewed the fake tan and barely-there clothes of other party girls, preferring to stay at the cutting edge of fashion and to be a little less obvious.
Tonight, however, she had decided against avant garde design and had chosen something appropriate for a charity gala dinner, a soft dress of midnight-blue. The material was clingy and deceptively demure, high-necked and calf-length with chiffon shoulder straps. Not only did it cling to Minty’s torso like a second skin, until the waist where it flared out into a ballerina skirt, but both the neckline and from the mid-thigh down were made of a thinner, almost transparent material, showcasing her legs and cleavage whilst covering them. She’d teamed it with a silver velvet wrap for outside and silver star earrings.
Simple yet devastating—at least, that was the effect she had hoped for and, by the look in Luca’s eyes when she had finally got dressed, she had achieved it.
They walked along side by side, not speaking as they enjoyed their ice cream, just content to be together. For once Minty didn’t feel the need to interrupt the silence, to prattle or make jokes. She just was. They strolled down the side of the world-famous Uffizi towards the Arno and Minty caught Luca’s arm, pulling him to a standstill. On the other side of the street a lone violinist was playing. They stood and listened to the soaring strings for a moment and then, by silent accord, sat on the steps opposite, enthralled by the magic of the night.
Her every sense was on fire, the bitter of the lemon contrasting with the sweetness of the berries; the feel of Luca nestled protectively by her side strong, comforting. The exquisite sound of the violin was high and almost unbearably poignant as it sang a yearning melody. Other people were walking by, and a few others had sat near them, but to Minty it felt as if the violinist was playing a serenade for Luca and her alone. She leant further into Luca, letting the whole weight of her body relax into him, shut her eyes and listened to the music. Whatever happened in the future, right here, right now, she was having a perfect moment.
And she wasn’t alone.
* * *
‘See, this is why I love Florence,’ Minty said as the violinist made his final bow and, scooping in the coins and notes, prepared to pack up. ‘You don’t know what’s round the corner.’
‘A church?’ suggested Luca solemnly. ‘A museum?’
She nudged him. ‘No! I was eighteen when I arrived here. I felt so free. You know I was dumped in school at seven, finishing school at sixteen. This is the first place where there were no expectations. Even the summers I came to you, there was a certain pressure to live up to my reputation.’
‘And you haven’t been back since?’
Minty shrugged. ‘I don’t know why I’ve stayed away, never shared it with anyone. I haven’t had the chance to, I suppose. The Minty I am here didn’t fit with the Minty I am elsewhere. The person people expect me to be.’
‘What do you mean?’ Luca’s voice was soft, caressing, non-judgemental, and for once Minty resisted the temptation to turn her past into a comedy routine.
‘Well, I got engaged, of course, pretty much straight away after going back to London.’ She caught his eye and blushed. The memory of that time was inextricably bound up with the night she’d spent with him. ‘I was grieving for Rose. I was so scared and alone. Then Barty proposed to me on his twenty-first birthday and, fool that I was, I said yes. I wasn’t even nineteen. Honestly, a baby! Of course, he’s a viscount, so it stirred up all kinds of silly society nonsense and publicity, even more so when I called it off.’ She shivered as the memories engulfed her despite the warm breeze.
‘Not only was I far too young, but that house...you can’t imagine. It was like a museum and a mausoleum all rolled into one, with hundreds of aunts and grandparents all staring disapprovingly. Hideous. Barty wanted us to live there with the whole family. Very twinset and pearls and hunting; not at all me. About as far from here culturally as one can get.’
‘So you ended it and got engaged again?’ Again a complete lack of judgement in his voice, as if the night they had shared had never happened. As if the girl she was remembering had been a stranger. She moved in closer, enjoying his solid warmth. He put his arm around her and pulled her in tight. Minty rested her head on his shoulder, thankful for the tacit support.
‘Well, yes,’ she admitted, the familiar flush of guilt washing over her. Barty had been her first love; she’d just got in too deep. Remembering Spike made her feel like a fool. ‘I was simply star-struck, I’m afraid. Spike was so famous and I loved his music; I couldn’t believe he was interested in me. Of course, he was as old as Daddy. The two of them got on famously, all golf talk and “do you remember?” One day they both fell asleep after lunch and I couldn’t tell which was which. It gave me quite a shock, and of course I realised it would never do. But then the papers decided I was just like my mother and that was that. I only have to smile at a man to be engaged to him, and there are all kinds of editorials warning him off me, and so-called psychologists analysing my past.’
‘But you were hoping, third time lucky?’
The third. An ache squeezed her chest. ‘Poor Joe,’ she said. ‘I’m such a disappointment.’ A prickle of heat started behind her eyes, unfamiliar wetness. How glad she was of the darkness. ‘I can put Bart and Spike down to immaturity, but I was old enough to know better with Joe. I should have known he wasn’t for me the day he proposed on a ten-mile hike up a mountain.’
Luca gave a snort of amusement. ‘I hope you were wearing sensible shoes.’
Minty elbowed him indignantly. ‘Walking boots and a fleece, I’ll have you know.’
Luca seemed to be shaking and when she turned to him she saw, with some surprise, that he was laughing. She had made people laugh at ‘the tale of Minty’s three fiancés’ before, many times. But not like this.
‘You wore a fleece?’ he asked with some difficulty. ‘Did it have an attached waterproof?’
‘It was practical,’ she said, then bit her lip, a bubble of amusement rising up inside her, dispersing the ache.
‘You got engaged to a man who proposed to you in a fleece?’
‘We were up a mountain!’ But it was no use; the laughter that erupted from her wasn’t self-deprecating, sarcastic, a disguise. It was real, all-consuming. He was right; it had been ridiculous.
‘I think, cara, you had a lucky escape.’ Minty’s heart clenched at the endearment.
‘From Joe? It wasn’t all mountain-trekking; he liked pub quizzes as well.’
Luca laughed again, deep and sensual. ‘From all of them. None of them were right for you.’
‘Most people think they had a lucky escape from me.’ Minty tried not to sound wistful.
‘Most people,’ he said, dropping a kiss onto the top of her head, ‘are fools.’
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